


Nitrogen + Mask

by Captain_Kieren



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: 1x07, Aftermath of Torture, Asphyxiation, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e07 Can Opener, Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Nitrogen, Poisoning, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Torture, Whump, Whumptober, Worried Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kieren/pseuds/Captain_Kieren
Summary: What happens after Jack rescues Mac from the nitrogen torture.Missing scene for 1x07: Can Opener
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 104





	Nitrogen + Mask

**_MEXICO…_ **

**_EL NOCHE’S COMPOUND…_ **

“I’m told it feels like drowning. Very uncomfortable.”

Mac tries not to squirm, but it’s hard. The guys who hauled him out of the trunk hit him hard enough in the gut to double him over, and he’s still struggling to get his wind back.

The duct tape keeping his wrists secured to the arms of the chair pulls at his skin, wrapped much too tightly. Already, his fingers are going cold from the lack of circulation.

“So, after a little of this—” El Noche gestures to the tank of nitrogen standing beside him. It has a tube running from one of the gaskets, ending with an oxygen mask. “You’ll be beginning to me even your darkest secrets.”

The group of men take a moment to regard Mac in some silent judgement. Then, El Noche nods to the man behind Mac, and a strong hand fists his hair, yanking his head back just as the oxygen mask closes around his face.

Before it’s able to seal, Mac hauls in the biggest breath he can manage, until his lungs are straining with the fullness, and holds it, slamming his eyes shut.

The nitrogen is cold on his nose, on his lips. Gushing winds of it. But he doesn’t let it in.

El Noche leans close, inches from Mac’s face. “Come on, smart guy,” he says lowly. His fist slams into Mac’s stomach, in the same place his buddy hit him moments ago.

Every ounce of oxygen he managed to take in leaves him in a great, painful _whoosh_ as his body crumples.

 _Don’t breathe!_ He warns himself.

The man keeping the mask clamped over his face pulls his head back as Mac’s body instinctively inhales.

The world turns white.

It’s agony.

What should have been a lungful of relieving oxygen feels _wrong._ It’s gas, like O2; it’s cold like O2 would be from a mask like this, but instead of filling his lungs, it seems to go the wrong way. Straight to his head, instead.

It’s a horrendous, bubbling feeling. And his lungs are still empty, except for a bizarre, over-full iciness. It _does_ feel like drowning.

When he opens his eyes, the world is spinning. And El Noche is watching him with fascination.

The mask comes away.

He gasps.

His body strains, his back arching against the chair, desperate for oxygen – but he can’t find it. His lungs are too tired, too full. Full of the wrong thing. It feels like there’s a car on his chest.

“That was just a taste,” El Noche says, straightening up. His voice echoes and overlaps itself. His face blurs in and out of focus. “Are you ready to tell me who you work for?”

“I’m ready to—” Mac groans, head lulling against the back of the chair. His eyes widen and then squeeze, but his vision won’t return to normal. “I’m ready to tell you…”

El Noche tilts his head.

“I’m ready to tell you…” The weight of the car sitting on his chest eases and he’s able to gulp down some precious air. For a brief moment, his head clears. Just as the Mexican drug lord leans in close to him.

Mac is grunting, breathing hard, but he meets El Noche’s dark eyes with what he hopes is a look of defiance. They won’t break him. “…how much I love your mustache.”

El Noche stands up slowly, leveling Mac with a disapproving frown. He doesn’t make any intelligible movement or signal, but without a word, Mac’s head is roughly yanked back and the cold seal of the mask closes around his face.

“Call me back when he’s feeling more talkative.”

It’s worse the second time.

Mac struggles against the hands holding him, against the mask on his face. His lungs are on fire, the blood boiling with actual bubbles. He can feel them – gathering in his joints, in his chest, in his veins. It hurts.

It hurts so bad.

His kneecaps are going to snap off, his arteries are going to explode. He feels like a balloon pumped with too much helium, seconds from popping.

The weight on his chest is heavier this time. No longer a car, but an eighteen-wheeler parked on his sternum, pressing it down, closing his throat.

He strains against the duct tape on his arms; his legs kick uselessly.

The room and the faces flash around him in a blur of yellow, and light, and cotton fabric. Hard faces, too much light, blurring and spinning and flashing.

The panic hits him all at once.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t _breathe._

The mask is yanked off.

Mac doubles, gasping, almost retching. But, stubbornly, the air refuses to come into his lungs.

This is the worst part - when the mask is off, and he _should_ be able to breathe, but he still can’t.

His own strained wheezing sounds high and painful to his ears. He sounds like a zombie, like someone in their death throws.

The men hear it before he does. A choppy whirring sound rattling the floor and the shutters. There are wild looks passed back and forth, turning around, an air of uncertainty and anxiety.

A helicopter.

The Phoenix.

He could cry with relief, but the larger part of his brain is already registering a problem. There are too many men here, all of them armed. Even though the tac team Thorton sent will be armed, armored, and in higher numbers than those in the compound, all it takes is one stray bullet to send an op crumbling down.

This situation is about to get a lot worse if one of these guys thinks to take him as a hostage.

Snatching the opportunity, and the distraction, Mac kicks the nitrogen tank. It topples with a hollow _clang_ and when he stomps down on the gasket, releasing the pressurized gas inside, the thing takes off like a jet, spinning wildly through the room, striking backs, and stomachs, and skulls.

It smacks against his chair as well, but he ducks in time for it to miss his head.

By the time the canister runs out of nitrogen, all of El Noche’s men are down, moaning on the floor. Mac’s head lulls as the room continues to whirl around him, but he’s never been happier to hear the sound of automatic gunfire.

It means the cavalry has arrived.

* * *

“Clear! Dalton, go!”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice.

As soon as the courtyard is empty of baddies, he makes a beeline for the house. The side door slams into the interior wall under the blow of his boot, and he charges in gun-first. The hall is guarded by three guys. They each get a double-tap to the chest, and are flat on their backs before they can even yell out.

He sees El Noche before he sees Mac. The drug lord is blocking Jack’s view of the kid, but Noche is aiming a gun at someone, and that’s when he sees the flash of prison orange.

Thorton wants him alive, so as badly as Jack wants to put a _bullet_ in this asshole, he does the next best thing. El Noche crumples as the butt of Jack’s rifle cracks into the back of his skull. He hits the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Hey, man. Got your message,” Jack says, scanning the room. Mac is tied to a chair, surrounded by bodies. Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter. They’re down and Mac is alive.

Thank God.

Lowering his weapon, Jack relaxes somewhat. The sound of gunfire has ceased outside, which means the tac team has finished clearing El Noche’s forces. The compound is secure.

“Might want to brush up on your Morse code though. I think you misspelled my name.” He smiles.

Mac doesn’t, which is weird. He looks uninjured, but his face is white and his eyes are huge and glassy.

Tilting his head, Jack takes in the duct tape on his wrists, the messy blonde hair. The kid spent a few hours in the trunk of a car, and he looks the part. “Hey, boys!” Jack calls, signaling the rest of the team to surge into the room and start cuffing drug dealers.

In the meantime, Jack takes out the small knife he keeps in his vest, and squints at Mac, who still hasn’t spoken or hardly acknowledged their arrival. Behind him on the floor is an empty canister attached to an oxygen mask, and the kid breathing funny. Strained, wheezing gasps like he’s got asthma. 

“Geez, what they been giving you?” Jack cuts the tape off Mac’s arms, and the kid clumsily pulls his wrists free. Jack stands up to give him some breathing room. “You look like you could use a nap.”

Still panting, Mac finally manages a smile and a breathy laugh.

“Room’s clear!” one of the guys yells.

“Good work, fellas,” Jack answers. “Get El Noche and his pals in a van.” He looks back at Mac, who has yet to even attempt to stand up. The kid seems to be focusing entirely on breathing, and not doing a good job at it. He’s bent at the hips and is massaging his chest like it hurts.

He kneels back down in front of Mac, rubbing the kid’s shoulder. “Hey, Mac? What’s going on?”

His eyes are squeezed shut, and when he talks, his voice is hoarse. “Hurts—” he gasps. “—to _breathe_.”

Jack’s heart lurches. “What’d they give you?” His eyes flash to the tank behind the chair.

Nitrogen.

They were forcing the kid to inhale pure nitrogen.

“ _Jack_ —” he chokes out, reaching blindly for him. Jack catches his hand and gives it a comforting squeeze.

“Hey, hey, save your breath. I’m right here.” He scoots closer so their knees touch, and starts rubbing circles on his back.

“Than—” Mac wheezes. “Thanks for—coming.”

Jack laughs weakly, squeezing his hand again. “Ain’t no need to thank me, man. We’re partners. You watch my back, I watch yours, remember?”

Mac smiles as he sucks down another painful gulp of air, then moans, rocking as he rubs his chest. His skin is too pale and his eyes are unfocused, sliding around and never latching into anything for more than a few seconds.

“Dalton,” someone says behind him. “We’re clearing out in five minutes. He good to fly?”

“Sure, he is. Right, Mac?” Jack smiles at his boy, who gives him a feeble thumbs-up before letting his arm drop back down like it weighs fifty pounds.

When the others are gone, busily cramming El Noche and his goons into the back of a secure transport, Jack turns his attention back to his partner.

“You hear that, brother? You’re almost home.” Then, “Think you can stand up?”

In response, Mac’s labored breathing dissolves into a, frankly, startling coughing fit.

Jack pounds his back to help clear whatever it is he’s choking on, but it’s not a physical obstruction; it’s air. It’s gas. He coughs, and chokes, and wheezes, all the while his face is turning red, and by the time he’s done, he’s shaking like a leaf.

Suddenly, Jack has the deepest urge to go put El Noche out of his misery. The only thing that stops him is how utterly pissed Thorton would be if he did.

Mac swallows and tries breathing again. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on Jack’s part, but it seems easier this time. He sways in the chair, and Jack steadies him with a hand on his arm.

“Mac? You good?”

The kid’s eyes are distant, unfocused still. He’s drugged out. “Yeah—” He coughs again. “I want to go.”

“Okay. I’m gonna help you up.”

He nods, but his head is drooping toward his chest, and he does absolutely nothing to help get himself upright. He’s practically a rag doll.

“Mac—” Jack says, struggling to lift his dead weight. “I get you’re tired, but how about some help, brother?”

When he doesn’t get a response, Jack changes tactics. Lowering Mac back into the chair, and seeing that his eyes are hooded and barely open, he hooks one arm under his knees and the other under his back, hoisting him up bridal-style and carrying him out the door.

He’s barely breathing.

The guys by the chopper are getting ready to leave, smiling and laughing – but not for long. They startle at the fierce look on Jack’s face, and the pale, lifeless body clutched to his chest.

“Oxygen, NOW!” Jack commands.

Three different guys scramble to get it, laying it out and getting the mask ready. Jack lays Mac on the floor of the helicopter, and as messed up as it feels to be putting another plastic mask over his face, he has to if he wants his partner to take a breath.

Mac fights him when he tries putting it on his face, though. Clumsy, weak arms struggle enough that two of the guys have to pin them down, and another has to get his legs.

God, he feels so guilty.

“It’s all right, Mac. It’s okay. It’s just me; it’s Jack. I’m trying to help, okay?” He slips the mask on and turns on the air, hearing it hiss down the tubes.

When the cold gas fills the mask, Mac’s thrashing doubles. He grunts and kicks—amazing, considering how he was out of it a second ago—but the boys hold him still. But he doesn’t inhale. He’s holding his breath, instinctively terrified it’s more poison.

El Noche needs to rot in prison for the rest of his life.

“Breathe, Mac. Come on, _breathe._ ”

Eventually, he has to. His lungs don’t give him another choice.

He inhales, and it feels like handing a bottle of water to a man dying of thirst. As soon as Mac’s body registers that it’s nice, sweet O2, it can’t get enough.

The guys are able to release him, and his own hand comes up to the mask – not to pull it off, but to push it closer as he gulps down lungful after lungful.

“We good for wheels-up?” the pilot calls back.

“Yeah!” Jack sits next to Mac, bracing him.

He wakes up a few minutes after they get into the air. Blue eyes peek open, still glassy, still obviously disoriented, but focused. They find Jack in an instant, latching on him like he’s the only thing there is.

“Jack?” his voice is small and hoarse, and it’s painful to hear, but also – it’s so damn good to hear.

“There you are, brother.” Jack pets his hair, smiling down at him.

“Where—” He coughs, then winces and rubs his chest. “Where are we?”

“About twenty-five-thousand feet over Southern Cali, homeward bound.”

Despite how high up they are, Mac visibly relaxes. His chest rises greater ease as the tank hisses. “El Noche?”

“Sittin’ pretty in a black van headed for prison. Oh, and growin’ a pretty sizable goose-egg courtesy of yours truly.”

Mac smiles tiredly. More than anything, it’s a crinkling of his eyes and the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says, letting his head rest back again.

“Tired?”

“Yeah. And—” He shifts, wincing. “Hurts.”

Jack frowns. “What does?”

“Joints.” Another squirm. “Back.”

“That’ll be the nitrogen poisoning,” Jack tells him, petting his hair again. It’s blowing around like crazy with all the wind. “A couple days in Phoenix medical and you’ll be right as rain, okay?”

Mac nods faintly, letting his eyes close. Jack assumes he’s either passed out or fallen asleep, but the kid’s hand drifts toward his, closing around his fingers. “Thanks, Jack. Good to see you. Missed you…”

Jack chuckles, petting his hair down again. “Missed you too, buddy.”


End file.
